Short Story: Easter Debacle

                                                                            Spirit

Everyone probably has had an embarrassing moment or two over the years. In my case, not so long ago I made a spectacle of myself in full view of a group of friends. Here’s the story.

Easter is often the seasonal turning point in the San Juan Archipelago that graces the sea between the US Mainland and Vancouver Island in British Columbia. On a specific Sunday about ten years ago, the sun was shining, the world around was green and fresh, and we boaters could at last do our thing after a long, gray winter. Around Friday Harbor, our thing was usually an Easter potluck in pristine, Parks Bay, a quiet, uninhabited notch in neighboring Shaw Island. The Bay was part of a nature preserve.

A dozen boats came to the party that Sunday. They rafted up side by side or tied to what was left of an old pier that floated on an anchor about 10 yards from the dense, south shore of the Bay. That Easter my wife and I took Spirit (picture above) and a recent addition to our tiny fleet, a new, wooden skiff that I had built over the winter. It was a lightweight, 14’ beauty with a touch of dark green trim and wonderful lines (picture below). We towed the skiff to the Bay behind Spirit, and we tied to the old pier even though I was a bit trepidatious about the water shallowness in so close to land. My cadre of old salts assured me “no problem” as they tied Spirit to the pier and admired the skiff. Food and wine magically appeared from the various boats, spring was toasted, and festivities commenced. It was a genial gathering of genuine friends.

                                                              Friend, Bill, rowing Skiff

About twenty minutes later another boat appeared at the entrance to the Bay and headed toward us. It was a relatively large, white boat with black trim named Fun. It had a large assortment of aerials, domes, and spotlights as well as a small, barking dog on the foredeck. So much for quiet, Parks Bay with its blue herons, eagles, and jumping fish. At the upper (flybridge) helm of Fun was the skipper in a gold-braided hat. He was known to a few people present to be a recent arrival to San Juan Island. The young lady in the bikini standing next to the old boy was an unknown. Arne, our harbormaster who had Danish saltwater for blood, whispered in an aside:

“That boat reminds me of a tennis shoe!”

The skipper of the boat signaled that he would like to raft up on the outside of Spirit. He had to signal with his hands as he had rock and roll music playing full blast on his flybridge and couldn’t be heard by us. I understood what he wanted, and I was not favorable to having him tied outside of me so I was pinned to the flimsy pier in shallow water with the tide starting to ebb. Besides, he might leave the music on.

I signaled back to him to go around in a circle and that I was leaving. He could have my place. With that, Judy and I boarded Spirit and I started the engines. A couple of the guys untied us from the pier. I could depart going straight ahead, so our little skiff just followed us along on its towline.

I made a slow circle out into deeper water and dropped my anchor in about 15’. Once the anchor was down, I started backing Spirit to set the anchor—make it dig in. I was backing toward the crowded pier in full view of everyone. Suddenly, one of my engine alarms started to scream and the engine stopped. Judy yelled from the rear deck:

“You’ve backed over the skiff!”

Friends were shouting something from the pier and waving their arms.

I shut down both engines completely and went to the rear deck to look over the transom where Judy was staring down. It was an awful sight. Only the back half of my skiff was visible above the water. The rest was under Spirit. I had backed over the skiff’s towline. The towline wound around one of my propellers and the propeller shaft until it stopped the engine—hence the alarm. And—as we would find out a bit later—as the towline wound, it pulled the bow of my hand-made skiff into the propeller, which chopped a huge hole in the shiny new skiff’s bow. I didn’t look up at the now-silent crowd of observers. The only sound was the rock and roll music from the tennis shoe.

The rest is anti-climatic. I was able to phone a diver in Friday Harbor and he was willing to come over to Parks Bay to cut away the towline and release the skiff with the hole in it as well as the propeller and shaft. He arrived an hour later in his workboat. Meanwhile, some friends rowed out to our anchored Spirit and talked Judy and I into coming back to the pier to join in the festivities. We weren’t feeling festive. Once on the pier with some wine, we heard several backing-over-towline stories from sympathetic friends. The old salts were all smiles in an attempt to cheer me up. The party went on. I did ask the gold-braided skipper to turn off his jarring music, which he did. After the diver completed his work, we eventually returned home in Spirit on our own power—with the holed skiff hoisted clear of the water.

For the next several years I was asked to provide the entertainment at the Easter potluck.

Copyright © 2013 by Steven C. Brandt

Short Story: Boys Night Out

We left Friday Harbor in a single file and went through the gap out into the channel. Nate led the way in Liz B. Arne was second in Husky. I was third in my Spirit, which was protocol as I was the youngest. It was four PM and there was plenty of summer daylight left, but the sky was a smudged gray in the distance. We gradually turned left in a big arc, our wakes intermingling.

“Husky, Husky, this is Spirit.”

“Go ahead Spirit.” Arne was always quick to answer the VHF radio. The cabin on his thirty-foot boat was compact; he could reach everything from his helm seat. Husky had a long, open cockpit behind the cabin for stacking stuff—crab traps, diesel generators, or whatever. Arne was the harbormaster and had Danish saltwater for blood. Quiet Arne was granted the final word on any issue concerning boats.

“What is your read on the weather, Husky?” I was the worrier in the group. Today was one of the few times I had joined in for a boys night out on their boats. Usually the trip was a fifthteen-minute run just across the channel to Parks Bay on neighboring Shaw Island. Not today.

“Weather should be O.K. Maybe a little wind.” Arne would say it was O.K. even if a hurricane was brewing.

“Nate, how about you?” I asked. On VHF everyone on a given channel hears everything said over that channel. We were using 39. I knew Nate was listening in. It’s what we all did when cruising together.

“I’m O.K. There’s plenty of sunlight ahead.” Nate, our most senior guy at 70, probably hadn’t even listened to the weather forecast. I had. It was a little iffy.

We rearranged ourselves from single file so we were running abreast up the mile-wide channel. We aimed almost due west toward a Canadian island, Saturna, twelve miles away. It was standing tall up to the brooding clouds. Our plan was to stop on Stuart Island, the last, tiny piece of the U.S. before Haro Strait, the international boundary line, Canadian waters, and Saturna.

With a small boost from the tide, we were making a speed of nine knots over the ground, according to my GPS. That was the best any of us were going to do against the light, headwind.

By the time we passed Yellow Island (see picture) to starboard about fifteen minutes later, my sense was that the wind had picked up a bit. From time to time spray would curl over my bow and onto my windows. I would flip my wipers on, then off again.

“Spirit, Spirit, this is Liz B.”

“Spirit here.”

“What you got to eat tonight? I‘m getting hungry.” His voice was flat, matter of fact. Laconic Nate had been an expert on de-fusing nuclear bombs in his earlier life. Even so, his were the funniest jokes around the boatyard. Quite a contrast.

“All I brought was wine,” I kidded, “red wine, of course.” Neither of the guys would touch Chardonnay.

My diesel engines hummed in unison.

I fingered my microphone button. After about ten minutes, I broke the silence: “Say, you two, I think the wind is picking up.” I had the wipers on full time now. The wind was coming straight at us, slowing us. Our speed over the ground had dropped to eight knots.

There was no reply. My guess was that Arne was checking the weather on channel 4 and that Nate was chewing on a toothpick, as he often did. We motored on. Little Flattop Island was crisp and flat just ahead about a mile. To the left of it was Stuart Island, four miles away. Our plan was to go into Prevost harbor on the west side of Stuart where we would anchor together, banter, and watch the sun set over Canada, wine glasses in hand.

“Spirit, Spirit, Husky here.”

“Go ahead Arne,” I said.

“How you doing?” Arne, who was the same age as me, tended to father me a bit since I was a relative greenhorn in boating matters. I had the biggest boat and the least experience.

“Seems to me the weather is not getting better.”

Nate piped in. “This is standard, afternoon stuff.”

Arne continued: “Nate, maybe we should drop down along Spiden (Island) and overnight in Reid Harbor.” Reid was on the east side of Stuart and, for the moment at least, out of the path of the wind.

My thought popped out and onto the airway: “I have a motto, fellows. Don’t drive into bad weather.” No one replied to my advice. We plowed on. The wave tops reached higher. I could see Liz B. hobby-horsing, bow up…then bow down, splash. She was the smallest of our three boats.

“If we are going to run down along Spiden, we gotta make a turn inside ten minutes,” I said, dispensing with using the boat names. Things were getting serious as far as I was concerned. This was to be a fun night out.

I checked around 360 degrees. My eyesight agreed with my radar. No other boats were in the channel.

After a few minutes, I depressed the button on the side of my microphone. “O.K. guys. What do you old salts think?” I was just the Captain of my boat, not the party leader.

“I think we’ll be O.K. shortly, but let’s try Reid Harbor, Arne,” said Nate. At last the authorities conferred.

Arne: “I am alright with that. How about you, Steve?"

I fiddled with my mike button and took one more look around before depressing the button and speaking slowly: “I’m going back to Friday Harbor, fellows. Anyone want to join me?” No response.

I slowed Spirit until my partners were ahead of me. I picked a trough, pushed both throttles to full ahead and made a quick, 180-degree turn. The boat rolled a little as we went broad-side to the wind. Then it was calm. I headed homewards, downwind and down waves.

“Have a good one,” said Arne.

“See you later.” Nate.

“Best to you, fellows.”

I turned my windshield wipers off.

Copyright© 2013 Steven C. Brandt

Uncle Ken Tale: Marbles & Tobacco Juice

“What did you do in Missouri as a young boy, Ken?” He pondered the question a few moments and eased into the story. “Well, mostly we worked. We were really out in the country, the hills, and we were a long way from anywhere in those days.

“The mountain people around Big Piney, Missouri were a rough & ready bunch. Most of them lived on tiny farms tucked away back among the hills. Big Piney—the main town—consisted of a general store, church, blacksmith shop, school, and four to five houses. Everyone put in long weeks, but on Sundays most everyone would walk or ride into town on a horse or in a wagon for a little socializing. Here’s what typically happened: The men played marbles and the women had tobacco-spitting contests! This is what went on.

“There was a level spot in the dirt road in front of the general store. The men would smooth it out with their feet, lay down on their stomachs, and spend the afternoon shooting marbles. Great fun. I remember the scene very well. At eight or nine, I was too young to be a player, but me and the other boys from the area still had a good time, watching and running around. And wait till you hear this.

“The women of the Big Piney area gathered down the road from the general store. They had their own Sunday contest. They would draw a line in the dirt and stand behind it. Then, one at a time, they would walk up to the line and, with great concentration, spit a shot of tobacco juice as far as they could! The winner was the lady who cold spit the farthest.”

“Was your mother ever a participant, Ken?”  "Never in this world," was his reply.